The Waiting Room
by valkyriegirl
Summary: Once he realized he'd lost her, Peter would do anything to get her back. Picks up 72 hours after the end of "Over There, Part 2". AU. P/O.
1. Chapter 1: Puzzle Pieces

**Spoilers:** "Over There" Part 2.

**Disclaimer:** This is not my show. No inFRINGEment intended.

**A/N:** This takes place 72 hours after the end of "Over There, Part 2". This is my first fanfic. Many thanks to piratesmiley for being my beta reader.

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It was the Observer who tipped him off. Peter had been leaning on the low stone wall that marked the edge of a Harvard campus parking lot, watching students and faculty trickle past as he waited for Olivia. _Why does it seem like I'm always waiting for Olivia?_ The thought didn't bother him as much as he'd expected. He'd been hoping that catching her outside of the lab might give him the opportunity to corner her into saying something—anything—about what had happened. _Just give me something to go on. It doesn't have to be much. I'm a patient guy. _ He crossed his arms and turned west, squinting in the sunlight for signs of her black SUV. _Well, I can try to be a patient guy, anyway_.

Someone bumped into him from behind and Peter stumbled, checking that he still had his wallet—he'd spent enough time as a fence to know when he'd been pickpocketed—and looked up just in time to see a tell-tale fedora disappear around the corner. Peter gave chase, of course, but, predictably, the Observer had vanished. Only when he stopped running did Peter find the note the Observer had slipped into his jacket pocket. It read, "She must not know. Tonight, 1:37am." Underneath there were GPS coordinates. It might as well have been Greek to Peter, except that Peter could actually read Greek. Something big was going to go down at that location in about 12 hours, and the Observer wanted him to be there. The question was, why? Or rather, what was it this time? And who was 'she'? _Just another day averting the apocalypse… or __an__ apocalypse, anyway, _he thought, wryly, turning to go inside and tell Walter and Astrid_. _

As he turned he saw Olivia's black SUV swerve into the parking lot. _Even her driving seems on edge lately. _He paused to wait for her. She looked grumpy when she got out of the car, but then she carefully wiped her expression blank when she saw that he was waiting for her. _She must not know. _Did the Observer mean her? He frowned and put the strip of paper back into his pocket. "Hey," she said. "You called—what 's up?" She settled next to him at the wall and folded her arms behind her back. "I was workin' on a report." Working on a report—at her desk at the Bureau, not here at the lab. He looked into her face, hopeful, and only saw a question. _You told me that I belonged with you,_ he thought, feeling betrayed. It hurt him more than he cared to admit.

But Peter was nothing if not resilient. "Walter never passes up the chance to make one of us play guinea pig. Today's your lucky day." He paused to watch her expression. She managed a chuckle and a dry grin that didn't reach her eyes. "Walter has a few tests he wants to run in the lab, just to make sure everything is okay since we crossed back. As you know, crossing over can have strange consequences." She nodded and started walking toward the lab.

Since getting back from the other side, she'd been impatient with Walter, short with Astrid, distant with him. Rachel had called last night to make sure that Olivia was alright—Olivia wasn't returning her calls and Rachel had just wanted to make sure. Peter had chalked it up to stress after everything that had happened, but now he wondered if there was something else, something really wrong. He feared it was him_. God forbid you have feelings for someone, Olivia._ He thought, in flash of bitter frustration. _Because that would be terrible._ Then he instantly felt bad, considering what had happened the last time she'd been in a relationship. It_ had_ been terrible. He needed to be patient. He needed to wait for her to come to had opened the door to the lab and was holding it, looking at him quizzically. "You comin'?" she asked. He nodded and followed her in.

"Walter," he called, looking around. Astrid was working on paperwork, and Walter was happily doing something awful with _Manduca _larvae. "Olivia's here so you can run those tests." Walter came over and greeted Olivia, gesturing for her to sit down in a chair.

"Agent Dunham, I was thinking I might compare a recording of your brain waves with the ones I took before we left. I have a theory regarding how crossing over might affect the pattern—I want to see if there has been any effect," he got out a pen-light and was looking at her pupils. She looked slightly annoyed.

"Walter, I have a lot of paperwork to catch up on at the Bureau—"

"Yes, yes of course you do. This will only take a few minutes." Walter put the penlight down and gestured toward a chair. "Please have a seat. Peter, would you bring the neuroanalyzer?" Peter nodded and crossed toward the cabinet where they kept it. Olivia watched him pull it out and unfold it. All of a sudden she reached up and pulled her hair out of her ponytail, shaking her hair out over her shoulders. Peter brought the neuroanalyzer over to her and carefully placed it on her head. As he went around behind her to start hooking up wires, she tensed microscopically. Just a tiny bit, but he had seen it. _What is with you today, Olivia?_ He started plugging wires into the analogue/digital converter, and gently brushed her hair off her neck and over her shoulder to keep it out of the way. As he did so he caught a glimpse of something black at the base of her neck—had she gotten a tattoo? Seriously? He opened his mouth to say something, make some jibe, but before he could say anything she jumped, pushing her hair back quickly.

"Peter, you pulled my hair!" He knew he hadn't. And after all the times they had placed electrodes in the back of her neck to put her in the tank, he knew that tattoo hadn't been there before. _She didn't want me to see it, _he thought, his curiosity piqued. "Jeez, Olivia, you're kinda on edge today—did you have more than your usual vat full of coffee this morning?" She looked around at him and smirked, but the tension didn't leave her face. Her pupils were oddly dilated, indicating stress.

Walter turned on the monitor and began recording her brain waves. Almost at once his eyebrows shot up and he pointed to the screen, comparing the previous recording to the current one.

"How extraordinary—look, do you see how much more slowly the phase advances in the theta rhythm of the hippocampus? This is hardly the effect I had expected! It's almost as though we're comparing two completely different brains! Do you feel any different, Agent Dunham?" Olivia glanced up quickly and then looked away again.

"No, I feel fine." Walter began scribbling excitedly on a notepad, oblivious. All of a sudden, Peter was on edge. He was getting the tingly feeling in his fingertips that he usually associated with a deal gone wrong. He stood there and just looked at Olivia, the way she was sitting, her auburn hair. The weird new tattoo. He thought about the note in his pocket. _She must not know. _ And Walter's declaration. _It's almost as though we're comparing two completely different brains! _Suddenly it clicked. _No, no, no—it can't be,_ he thought, fingering the paper in his pocket, stomach sinking horribly as his pulse quickened.

"What effect did you expect, Walter?" He asked, watching Olivia out of the corner of his eye. He really, really didn't like the thoughts that were occurring to him at the moment, but he sidled over to the drug cabinet anyway, out of Olivia's range of view with the halo frame on her head.

"Well, my theory was that the theta phase advancement would have accelerated due to the increased use of her abilities these past few days, but as that is clearly not the case—" He looked down to make another note on his chart. Peter slipped an autoinjector filled with sedative out of the cabinet and into his pocket. Walter put a finishing touch on his notes and flipped the folder shut.

"Okay, Peter, that should be enough for now. Agent Dunham has a busy schedule." Walter stood and walked across the lab toward his desk. Peter crossed back over to where she was sitting, turned off the monitor, and started disconnecting the wires, mind churning furiously. Suddenly an idea occurred to him.

"Hey, Olivia, you've been working really hard lately—what if we went out tonight to celebrate coming home?" She looked at him incredulously through the wires of the halo. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Walter stop and start busying himself with something at the bench, clearly eavesdropping.

"Are you asking me out? On a _date_?" She smirked like she thought it was a joke.

"Yeah, I guess I am." His heart was pounding in his chest as his mind raced. She half-smiled.

"I'll have to think about it. Like I said, I've got a lot of catching up to do."

"We could go to that place we went for your birthday," He said lightly, working to keep his voice even.

"Not tonight. Maybe some other time." She said. Peter nodded and swallowed, trying not to gulp audibly, as he broke out in a cold sweat. _Shit, shit, shit, what have they done with the real Olivia—with our Olivia? _ He went around behind her, ostensibly to disconnect the rest of the wires, slipped the syringe out of his pocket, and plunged it into her neck. She cried out and struggled for a minute, then slumped forward. Walter cried out and rushed over, waving his hands.

"Son, son, that's hardly the way to handle rejection!" Peter pulled the frame off of her head and tipped her forward so that Walter could see the tattoo on her neck. Walter looked at it for a moment and then took a step back.

"Oh dear—this isn't our Agent Dunham, is it?" Peter shook his head, feeling sick. Was this the alternate Olivia, or a shapeshifter? His mind's eye treated him to a series of images of the real Olivia—or his Olivia, anyway—face-down in a ditch somewhere. He tried to block it out.

"Astrid!" He bellowed, panic-stricken. "We've got a problem!"


	2. Chapter 2: Full Circle

Several hours later, Peter was driving Olivia's SUV into an empty field outside New York City. He glanced down at his hands and tried to relax his white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel. He'd been doing about 20mph over the speed limit all the way down I-95, but for once no one had complained of his lead-foot. Walter was sitting in the back seat, asleep. He'd taken the news pretty hard—Peter hadn't seen him this upset since he'd confronted Walter about being snatched from the other side. Astrid was sitting tensely in the passenger seat with a GPS unit in her lap, tracking the coordinates that the Observer had left for them. None of them knew what to expect, or whether this trip would be of any use at all, but one didn't ignore an Observer. The other Olivia (Peter thought of her as _the fake Olivia_, but that wasn't quite right), whose blood was thankfully, wonderfully, miraculously red, was locked up at the FBI building and had been of absolutely no use whatsoever, thus far. And their Olivia—_his_ Olivia—was out there, somewhere, probably in the other Universe. _Just be alive,_ he thought.

Broyles hadn't taken the news well, either. At first he'd just given Peter a long look that said, "Okay, Bishop, prove it." Peter didn't think Broyles would find the bit about her birthday convincing. But the discovery of the tattoo on her neck was pretty indisputable evidence. And after Peter had knocked her out and explained what was going on to Walter and Astrid, they had taken another look at the brain wave measurements and more carefully compared them with the real Olivia's measurements. Because the other William Bell and Walternate had never met on the other side, alternate-Olivia had presumably never been involved in the Cortexiphan trials, and there were some significant differences between the two recordings—differences that Walter, upon further scrutiny, thought indicated that they really were from two different brains. Broyles had Other Olivia in an interrogation room, but she hadn't talked yet. Peter had pointed out helpfully that the statute against torture didn't apply to her, since she technically wasn't a citizen of _this_ United States, or _this_ universe, for that matter. Broyles had ignored him and said he'd call if there were any developments.

Peter looked at the clock. _This is our only lead; I hope we aren't wasting time. _His stomach had twisted itself up into a nauseas knot. He exhaled, feeling slightly like he wanted to hyperventilate, which made him chuckle darkly. Here was a guy who up to two years ago had earned a living negotiating sensitive business deals—the kind where people got shot if the deal went sour. When he'd met Olivia he'd been ready to charge out into the Iraqi war zone to supervise the construction of an oil pipeline. And he couldn't ever remember being so nervous. _It's been so long since I've had anything to lose. _Astrid glanced up at his chuckle, brows furrowed.

"What?" She looked worried. He shook his head.

"It's almost 1:30; how close are we?"

"We're just about there." Astrid said. "We should probably get out of the car and walk." Peter stomped on the break a little too hard, waking Walter with a start, who nearly dropped his Red Vines. He'd been too upset to eat them during the trip south.

"Come on, Walter, we're here." Peter said. They all got out of the car and followed Astrid as she led the way across the field. Eventually she stopped, and looked around. Peter checked his watch.

"It's 1:32." So, they stood around and waited. Walter pulled out the Red Vines, thought about it, and tucked them back into his sweater pocket, looking subdued. Peter's mind wound itself in endless, anxious circles that were punctuated by flashes and snippets of memories of her. _Olivia._ He remembered the first time they'd met, in Baghdad—how he'd called her sweetheart just to push her buttons. He thought about the way she had looked at him when he played the piano, the tone of her voice and the arc of her eyebrows when he made her laugh, how terrified she'd been when she'd woken up in the hospital after meeting William Bell. She had looked for Peter then, in the hospital, knowing he would be there. Most of all he thought about what she'd said, in the Other New York. _You belong with me_. She had surprised him, but once she had spoken it aloud they had both accepted it for the simple truth. If Peter was being honest with himself, he had known it for some time. He had once, among other things, decided to stay and wait with her on a rooftop that was rigged to explode. _Putting it that way makes it seem like I had a choice. I couldn't just leave her there alone_. Sure, part of him had known. But he had been head-strong, or maybe just plain scared. His instinct had always been to get out of dodge the minute things got complicated. He used to believe it was common sense, self-preservation. _In the end, I'm a coward_. He hoped he'd get the chance to prove himself otherwise. He folded his arms and settled in to wait. And at exactly 1:37am, there was a great flash of light, and Olivia Dunham crumpled to the ground at Peter's feet.

As she jerked horribly on the ground, Peter grabbed her arm and realized that she was covered in blood. "She's seizing!" Walter said. "Quickly, you must restrain her to prevent her from hurting herself!" He opened his kit and started drawing up a syringe. Peter put his hands on her shoulders in an attempt to keep her still and glanced down, wondering ridiculously why she was wearing gray pajamas like the ones at St. Claire's. That was when he noticed the gunshot wound.

"She's been shot in the leg!" Astrid said, noticing just as Peter did. She pulled off her sweater and pressed it to the wound, trying to stop the bleeding. Walter plunged the syringe into Olivia's arm and then glanced down at her leg. Eyeing the amount of blood that was gushing out of the wound, Peter started removing his belt.

"That won't do it; we'll have to stem the bleeding with a tourniquet. From the rate of flow, I'd say it hit the femoral artery." The bullet had entered from the front and appeared to have lodged itself in her quadricep; there was no exit wound. Peter tightened the belt around her leg, above the wound, pulling hard. The blood flow ebbed. Meanwhile, Astrid called an ambulance, struggling in her haste to dial as her bloody fingers slipped on the keys. Walter drew up another dose of something else. After a minute that seemed like an ice age, Olivia shuddered and lay still on the ground. There was blood on her cheek, at her brow, on her wrists. Walter checked her pupils and her pulse. She was breathing normally, but her pulse was weak. Peter pulled the belt a little tighter and turned to Walter.

"Since when do you carry anti-seizure drugs in your field kit?"

"Fortunately, I added them before we went over to retrieve you. The crossing can elicit varied responses in different individuals. Sometimes there are quite adverse side effects. Lorazepam and valproic acid seemed like prudent additions." All of a sudden, Olivia wretched convulsively and vomited over her shoulder. They quickly turned her on her side and Peter stroked her hair, feeling frustratingly useless. _Just hang on, Olivia._ A siren wailed in the distance as the ambulance got closer.


	3. Chapter 3: The Waiting Room

There was nothing to do but wait, as he had been for the past 72 minutes. So he leaned, arms folded, a long dark shadow against the white wall of the waiting room. He kept seeing her again and again in his mind's eye. _The wet, red stain spreading hugely down the leg of her pajamas, blood smudged on her forehead and cheek, pale skin like paper, the dark rings under her widening eyes._ He, Astrid and Walter had done what they could, but… He looked at his hands, which were still bloody. His fears fluttered in corners, darkly.

His anger with himself for failing to notice the switch earlier was huge and all-encompassing. He clenched his teeth together, jaw muscle twitching. _Those eyes held a meanness, cold in a way that Olivia had never been—_He frowned deeper, knitting his brows together. _You should have listened to your gut. You were afraid it was because she hadn't meant it, had regretted it..._ For a second he allowed himself to remember the kiss. _God,_ _the feel of her waist, of her lips, of her hair, the taste of her. _Someone in the waiting room coughed, and he jumped, nerves raw. _The ligature marks on her wrists, raw._ His chest tightened, and he glanced at the clock again. Astrid had taken Walter downstairs to wash up and get a snack at the hospital cafe. His phone buzzed in his jacket, and he dug it out.

"Hello?" His voice was rough, and he cleared his throat, feeling choked.

"Bishop, this is Broyles. What's her status?"

"She's still in surgery," Peter made an effort to keep his voice even. "Did she tell you anything yet, the other one?" There was a slight pause on the line.

"She's disappeared. We're not sure how she escaped. We haven't found her yet. We've arranged hotel rooms for you to stay in New York—you can't go back to your house until we've done a thorough sweep; who knows what she may have planted in there, or when she'll come back. I've sent a car. I'll arrange to have Olivia transferred as soon as she's stable enough to be moved; we can't risk leaving her in the hospital. You know what happened last time."

"Alright." _Things were not alright, and they would never be alright… not if—_

"Call when you know something. And Bishop?"

"Yeah?"

"She'll pull through. She's done it before." The line clicked. Peter nodded into the phone dumbly and slipped it back into his pocket.

At 124 minutes, a surgeon emerged from the operating room and Peter found himself standing by the man before he realized he'd crossed the room. He felt like he was hearing the man speak from underwater. Peter shook his head in an attempt to clear it.

"She's in recovery now," the man was saying. "There was massive hemorrhaging from the wound in her thigh—it had nicked the femoral artery—but we've removed the bullet and stemmed the bleeding. She's been given a blood transfusion. As far as we can tell, the seizure left no apparent brain damage. She's also severely dehydrated, and doesn't appear to have eaten in several days. We think she'll be fine, but she needs rest, and fluids. She's been given a sedative." Peter nodded and pushed his way past into the recovery room.

They had her propped up with pillows, her hair fanned out behind her, the color of rust. _She did that for you, she went over for you. And this is what she got for it. _ He hovered by the bed, uncertain, dwarfed by his desire to make her better and his frustration at being incapable of doing so. She blinked and opened her eyes at his footsteps, struggling to focus. At first she looked frightened, but then her eyes found his face. "Peter?" Her voice was weak, cracking. She sounded surprised. "Hey, Peter." She smiled a little at his name, one corner of her mouth tucked up.

"Hey," He looked her over, taking stock of the damage. There was a gash above her right eyebrow, a purple bruise on her cheekbone, and her bottom lip was split on one side. A blood vessel had burst in her right eye, which made the sclera a hazy red against the green of her iris. And she was thinner, too thin. She looked… frail. She looked like hell. Peter had a compulsive urge to climb onto the bed and gather her tightly into his arms for the next few millennia. He had one hand on the bed railing before he caught himself, tucked his hands into his jacket pockets and settled for smiling back at her.

"Welcome home, 'Livia."

"Peter… it's good to see you." She scrutinized his face, hands folded calmly in her lap. Someone had bandaged her wrists. "Am I dying, Peter?"

"No! They said that you're going to be fine!" She nodded, still smiling that half-smile, blinking slowly. He took her hand before he could think about it, which seemed to startle her a bit. She dropped the smile and looked at his hand around hers on the sea-green hospital blanket, then took a long breath. When she looked up at him, her expression had changed, eyebrows knit together in a frown.

"So I made it out? They… weren't going to let me go." Her hand was cold. He held it tighter, trying to give her some of his warmth. "I wanted to make sure… you and Walter were safe."

"We're fine, we're both just fine. You're the one who got shot—Jesus, 'Livia, we only just found out that there had been a switch—" _You were out there and I was over here, feeling sorry for myself because I thought you had only brought me back to save me, not to love me. _ He didn't think he'd ever stop hating himself for that.

"It's alright, Peter." She said with a sigh, sinking back into her pillow. She closed her eyes. After a few minutes her face relaxed, her lips parted slightly and her breathing changed. Peter realized she had fallen asleep. He stood there with her hand in his, feeling small and humble and raw, wading in a swell of emotion that was threatening to engulf him. His vision clouded a bit and he realized with impatience that there were tears in his eyes. He reached out and touched a strand of her hair. _You belong with me_, he thought, and it was a plea and a declaration, and the truth of it ached in his bones and made his hair stand on end.

He didn't know how long he stood there, watching her sleep. Eventually his phone buzzed in his pocket and he drew it out, one-handed. It was Astrid.

"She's okay, Astrid. We're in the recovery room. She's asleep at the moment."

"Oh, thank god. We're coming up." Astrid's voice was thick with relief, which made Peter feel a little guilty for being selfish. He should have called already.

Peter let go of Olivia's hand when he heard Astrid and Walter come into the room, and her green eyes flickered open. He knew his own eyes were red; he hoped they would attribute it to lack of sleep. Olivia looked up at Peter as Walter and Astrid came up to the side of the bed, and then glanced over to see who had come in.

"Agent Dunham," Walter said, smiling with relief. "You made it home." Astrid stood behind Walter. She was smiling, too. Olivia took one look at Walter and cringed, fear flooding her expression. The heart monitor began beeping rapidly as her pulse quickened. She drew herself up in the bed, squaring her shoulders. Her face was full of hatred.

"What do you want from me this time?" She hissed; her words were acid.

"Oh dear," Walter said, unhappily. Astrid put a hand on Walter's elbow. Peter looked at the bandages on Olivia's wrists and had one guess as to who had done this to her. His heart constricted at the thought.

"Olivia, it's okay—this is _our_ Walter. Remember, you made it home; you're safe now." She looked up at Walter again, puzzled, and then her face relaxed a little.

"We're really home?" She was slurring her words. Peter glanced at the IV in her arm.

"Yeah, we're home."

"Oh," She said, and blinked again. "Good… I'm sorry, Walter. Astrid." Walter nodded, and smiled weakly. Astrid steered Walter away from the bed.

"Peter, we're going to go wait for the car, okay?" Peter nodded. When they had gone, he reached over and took Olivia's hand again. A nurse came over and added something to the IV drip. Olivia blinked again, even more slowly, and her eyes stayed closed. Peter started to let go of her hand, to turn to the nurse and ask how soon she could be moved. As soon as he changed his grip her eyes fluttered open again and she struggled to focus as she looked at him. "Peter… are you leaving?" Somehow he knew she didn't mean the hospital room. He squeezed her hand.

"No, 'Livia, I'll be right here." He smiled to reassure her. She sighed, closed her eyes again, and slept.


	4. Chapter 4: Logistics

Peter called Broyles. He could have sworn he detected a note of relief in the man's voice, but he might have imagined it. They'd sent an unmarked van to take them from the hospital to the hotel. Olivia didn't wake during the entire half hour drive, or when they put her into the new hospital bed in the hotel suite. Peter was relieved it was a suite. He'd been afraid they'd have separate rooms; he hadn't been sure how he'd watch Walter and Olivia at the same time. _Broyles had said the other one might come back. They didn't know what she wanted._ Someone had given Peter a gun, for once. For some reason that made him a little sad.

After they had left, Walter had gone in to look at her again, concerned. He looked at her pupils and checked the drip, muttering something about "the good drugs," while eating jelly beans out of his pocket. "We don't know what that man did to her, but I think she'll be okay, Peter," He said, giving Peter a look that was far too understanding.

Astrid fed them something pot pie. She'd been baking in the kitchen since she and Walter had returned from the grocery store. _We're all worried about you, Olivia. You had better pull through. _From the way Walter was eating it, Peter figured it must be good. He could hardly taste it, himself. He hadn't eaten anything all day, but he wasn't hungry. _Calm down, she's okay._ Every few minutes he'd find himself glancing over at her in the other room. When she left at eight, Astrid put her hand on his arm and gave it a squeeze. "Do you need anything before I go? I'll be just down the hall." Broyles wasn't taking any chances—Astrid wasn't going home either. Rachel and Ella were arriving on a train in the morning. Rachel didn't know about the switch; she just knew Olivia had been in another accident. Broyles figured it was best to get them out of Boston, in any case.

The evening dragged by as Olivia slept. Walter read a few articles in _Science_, muttering about quacks and idiots. After that he got into the shower and began singing an aria from The Marriage of Figaro. Peter had never cared for opera—it didn't have the poise of jazz. Astrid had taken Walter with her to the grocery store, so Walter was probably okay with snacks for the rest of the night. Peter figured he might as well try to sleep. He pulled the comforter off his bed and settled down on the couch in the common area, outside Olivia's room. Walter's room was on the opposite end, but from the couch Peter could keep an eye on both of them. He closed his eyes.


	5. Chapter 5: Foundation

From the depths of a long, restless dream he heard a crash, and her cry. He cleared the sofa and the coffee table in one long leap, and was at the door, with the gun in his hand, somehow, ready to shoot that fake bitch in the heart for doing this to Olivia. Instead what he found was Olivia on the floor, tangled in the IV, leg sprawled out at an awkward angle. She looked up at him, face bright with fear and pain.

"Peter! Quick, help me, we have to get out of here! They did something to my leg!" Peter was at her side instantly, easing a hand under her elbow to help her sit up. He knelt beside her, checked that the safety was on, and set the gun on the nightstand.

"Olivia, what happened?"

"Peter, you're not listening—if we stay they'll catch us, do things—we have to get out—" She was begging, almost sobbing, terrified. Something broke open inside him, something that felt like one part heartbreak and two parts rage. They would pay for doing this to her. He would make them pay.

"Olivia, you made it home, don't you remember?" He put his hand on her cheek as he said it. "You escaped and were shot. Somehow you managed to open a door anyway and come back." She looked into his face for a second, eyes wide. Recognition came.

"Oh—I remember—I thought it was a dream. You were at the hospital, and Walter, and Astrid—" Her face screwed up again in terror, and she clutched his sleeves. "They did things to me, Peter, over there—I don't know what I told them, what if they can find us here? What if they come for you?"

"Olivia, we're alright—you need to calm down now." He rubbed her arm encouragingly. He was worried she'd reopened the wound in her thigh. Not to mention they'd told him to keep her calm. Crossing between universes, having a small seizure and getting shot was more than enough excitement in one day for anyone, even Olivia Dunham. "We're in a hotel because Broyles didn't think it would be safe to go home. He's got people out looking for her—them. But right now you need to calm down. You lost a lot of blood." She finally relaxed a bit as his words sank in. She smoothed her hair back from her face with both hands, brow knit with stress. It was a familiar gesture that evoked a disproportionate swell of warmth toward her on Peter's part. He tightened the corner of his mouth to hide a fleeting smile. _I've missed you_. Finally she looked at him again.

"Would you help me to the bathroom? I have no idea how long it has been since I brushed my teeth, and I'd like to wash my face." It was an odd request so close on the heels of her panic, but her expression said she was trying desperately to regain some shred of equilibrium. He nodded and turned to her leg, gesturing for her to unfold it. He wondered how she'd been sitting with it like that in the first place—she had to be in pain.

"If we're lucky, it won't be bleeding again. You know, it took them 124 minutes to patch you up? Walter went through three packages of twinkies." She shifted so that both legs were in front of her, and he cupped her knee in his right hand, liking the feel of it. He was abruptly aware of the fact that she was clad in nothing more than a hospital gown and panties. For that matter, he himself was wearing nothing but his boxers and an old, holey t-shirt. His pulse quickened but he tried not to think about that, either, as he unhooked the bandage with his left hand and unwound it, carefully. There was a little blood, but nothing to worry about. "Forty-seven stitches." He looked up at her and grinned. "Next time they're trading scar stories at the Bureau, you can give them a run for their money." Olivia cracked the barest hint of a smile. He rewound the bandage gently but firmly and stood up, bending to put an arm around her waist and help her stand, slowly. She stood, leaning heavily on the nightstand, as Peter retrieved the crutches that had been stashed in the corner. He was tempted just to pick her up and carry her, but he didn't think she'd ever forgive him the indignity of it. She made her way to the bathroom at a snail's pace and closed the door. At a loss of what to do with himself, Peter leaned on the bed. He didn't want to invade her privacy, but he also didn't want to leave in case she needed help. She had the water running in the sink, and she took her time. The clock on the bedside table read 2:13am. Peter yawned, stretched, and refolded his arms. He kept thinking she'd come out, but after twenty minutes he'd gotten worried enough to go over to the bathroom door and knock softly.

"'Livia, you okay in there?" She didn't answer. He knocked again. "Olivia?" Still nothing. "Olivia, I'm coming in!" He pushed the door open a tiny bit, waited, and then opened it all the way. The water was still running in the sink and it looked like the tooth-brushing attempt, at least, had been successful. She was huddled in the corner by the bathtub with her arms wrapped tightly around one knee, shaking. Her injured leg was stretched out in front of her. He reached across, turned the tap off, and knelt down beside her. She looked up at him as a tear rolled slowly down her cheek, and he put a hand on her arm.

"I didn't think I'd ever get out, but I had to keep trying—I was afraid they had you and Walter… They did things, to me, Peter—I don't even know what they did to me… I can't remember." He opened his arms to her and carefully drew her in. She tucked her face into the space between his neck and shoulder and he rested his chin on the crown of her head, holding her tightly. Eventually the tremors turned into silent, wracking sobs and she pressed harder into his shoulder, tears soaking through his faded t-shirt. He put a hand on her back—warm through the thin cotton hospital gown—and made big, soothing circles. He found himself muttering quiet little nonsense syllables to her, the kind of sounds people use to soothe an animal, or a frightened child. Eventually she shuddered into stillness, leaning against him, breathing with him in rhythm. Then she exhaled and sat up, wiping her nose with the back of her hand, refusing to meet his eyes. She looked surprised at herself, off-kilter, embarrassed. He wondered how long it had been since she'd let herself cry.

"Here—let's get you back in bed." She nodded, so he put an arm around her waist and helped her stand. She crossed the room with the crutches, and he supported her while she crawled back into the bed, awkwardly, without putting any weight on her injured leg. He pulled the covers over her when she was settled, and replaced the IV in her arm. When they were finished, she looked even more exhausted. "How about a little pain medication? They gave you the good stuff—Walter was jealous." She nodded, one arm folded over her chest. "I'll get you some water." He went out, brought back a glass, and handed it to her. She tossed the pills back, reaching over to putting the glass on the nightstand, and he tried not to look at her profile, or the way her breasts pressed against the gown as she reached. Sometimes he forgot, in the midst of her saving the world, that she was also gorgeous, and it would sneak up and astound him again. Even now, battered as she was. He wondered if she knew.

He found himself sitting on the edge of the bed, reluctant to leave, and was struck by the sudden hazy memory of her face over him as he woke up after being infected with the virus at Vetros Petrol. At the time, surround by Olivia, and Walter and Astrid, he had thought, _this is what it feels like to be loved_. He smoothed the comforter with his left hand. They sat quietly, together, for a minute. There was something longing in the way she was watching him, or maybe he just wanted there to be. She tilted her head, her mouth set in a way that meant she had something to tell him. She took a breath.

"Peter, I wanted to tell you again that I'm sorry—"

"Olivia—" He cut her off. _It doesn't matter._

"No, I have to say this. I wanted to tell you, after Jacksonville. Walter wanted to tell you himself. But I should have told you. Really I was afraid that you'd leave, that—I'd lose you. It was selfish."

_Yes, it was._ It had made him angry, then. But he didn't mind, anymore. He wanted her to want him. To want him to stay. He met her gaze. She was wearing the same expression as she had before, Over There. Pleading. There was something a little comforting in the fact that even Olivia Dunham could be selfish sometimes. He sighed and touched her cheek, gently. _I thought I was going to lose you today. _She smiled a little and so he leaned in, watching her eyes, and very gently put his mouth on the corner of hers. He meant it to be a peck, a soft little goodnight kiss, but she turned and kissed him full on in spite of her split lip and it deepened into something else, something more desperate. He broke the kiss and pulled back to look at her, cradling her head in his hands. A catalogue of all the things he'd like to do with her scrolled through his mind like tickertape on fast-forward as his blood rushed warmly through his veins. _Calm down, Peter._ _Not tonight. _He took a shallow breath, and sighed.

"And that would be my cue to get out of here and let you get some sleep. If you need me, I'll be right outside." He jerked a thumb toward his couch in the common room and stood up, turning to go. He flipped off the light.

"Peter?" She half-whispered his name when he was at the door. He turned back, leaning on the door frame. The yellow light from the street lamp outside caught in her hair, throwing her profile into silhouette. She looked like she was almost going to speak again, but then she dropped her chin and looked at the bedspread, smoothing it with her hand. _Caught between, _he thought suddenly, without knowing why_. _Then she met his gaze and patted the mattress once, which was all the invitation he needed.

She shifted over awkwardly as he eased himself down next to her. They had her leg propped up on a pillow so he carefully folded himself around her, holding her as tightly he could without hurting her. She tucked her head into the hollow between his chest and his shoulder and sighed as he pressed his lips to her hair. Eventually, he could tell by her even breathing that she had fallen asleep. He pulled her a little closer as he remembered lying awake in the middle of the night in Baghdad, or Shanghai, or Istanbul, paralyzed in the face of the vast, arching loneliness that he had tried and failed to fill with liquor and nameless, pretty faces. He leaned his cheek against her head, chest achingly full, and sighed, content. They both slept.

In the common room, Walter moved from his vantage point behind the sofa. He smiled to himself and hummed a bit of an aria as he shuffled back to bed. When we get back to Boston, he thought, I shall have to remember to ask Astrid to get my purple tuxedo dry-cleaned.


	6. Chapter 6: Accounting

**A/N: **I don't know why, but for some reason, in my head pancakes have become the official Fringe breakfast food. This is probably due in no small part to the short fic "Pancakes" by piratesmiley (my beta) which is one of the first fics I read here and one of the fics that inspired me to start writing my own. So, hooray for pancakes.

Oh, also, if you haven't yet, go check out Olivia's side of the story in my companion piece, 'Within'. Thanks!

* * *

Peter woke up in the best mood he'd been in for weeks, just as the first rays of sunlight were beginning to stream through the slats of the blinds, and knew exactly where he was (remembering, he couldn't help but smile). He lay for a while with his cheek against Olivia's hair, listening to her even breathing, before he finally sat up slowly, trying not to wake her. In sleep, her full lips were slightly parted, she had one hand tucked under her chin, and the frown between her eyebrows had relaxed. She was almost smiling, which made him grin even wider. _Sweetheart. _(The thought came unbidden, making him feel self conscious; it wasn't something he'd ever call her aloud—but he could think it… secretly). Struck by the sudden memory of seeing her in a coma at the hospital—of his guttural, overwhelming sense of loss as his world was suddenly turned upside down, and the immensity of his relief when she'd come out of it—he had a strong, compulsive urge, as he'd had then, to touch her, some small part of her, like her hand or her cheek. But this time he resisted; she needed her sleep, not to mention that she kept waking up disoriented and he didn't want to startle her.

Now that she was back, and getting better, most of the anxiety he'd had about her safety had been replaced by warm, fuzzy, protective-type feelings. The kind of feelings he'd never, not in one thousand years, admit aloud to having (not the least of the reasons being that the suggestion that she needed protecting would most likely result in her kicking his ass). He exhaled, shaking his head ruefully, and then grinned again wryly. Personal experience had taught him that these types of feelings were more than likely to result in a painful mess somewhere down the road, and even now he had a strong compulsion to get out, to travel light and fast to someplace where the buzz and crowd of a foreign city would grant him freedom by anonymity (he saw himself standing on a street corner in the baking heat under an azure sky, as men in long robes and women in veils bustled past)… But the point where he could have turned away from her had come and gone a long time ago. He reached out and lightly touched a strand of her hair in spite of himself, succumbing to her, watching the rise and fall of breath in her chest and realizing that somewhere along the way he'd begun to mark his own existence by that gentle ebb and flow. In no small measure, it terrified him.

He gently eased himself up off the bed, stretching, and tucked the blanket around her. The clock read 6:14am. He was a little stiff, to be sure—the hospital bed hadn't been intended for two, and he'd been careful not to jostle her. Suddenly he remembered he was only dressed in his boxers and a t-shirt, and he glanced down quickly. _Well, Peter, it's definitely past time for pants. _He looked over at Olivia, acutely grateful that she wasn't awake to witness this particular morning salute.

He crept out of the room, pulled his jeans off the end of the couch, and was in the midst of quietly slipping them on when Walter came out of his room, looking extremely cheerful. Suspiciously cheerful, actually. Peter didn't like the way Walter was smiling at him. He buttoned his pants.

"Good morning, Peter!" Walter (who, upon noting Peter's apparent state of undress, became positively gleeful) was wearing the complimentary robe and slippers from the hotel. _Well, at least he's semi-clothed_, Peter thought, glancing at Olivia's room. He went over and gently closed the door most of the way, hoping that she would sleep longer—she looked so exhausted. _Multi-dimensional travel can do that to you. Not to mention getting shot and having a wee seizure._

"Good morning, Walter."

"Peter, I was thinking, would it be possible to make pancakes this morning? I thought we might have a little celebration." He smiled a giddy, excited smile and nodded a little, pressing his hands together.

"Walter, pancakes would be nice. But I don't think Olivia's ready for a celebration yet; she's still got a lot of healing to do. She needs to rest." Walter shook his head, gesturing with his hands.

"No, no, son, I'm not talking about that. I want to celebrate you and Agent Dunham finally declaring your feelings for one another!" He smiled hugely, delighted. Peter covered his face with his hands, groaning. He should have known. _Did you really expect anything different?_

"What makes you think anyone said anything about feelings, Walter?"

"Well, you've been very solicitous toward Agent Dunham since she returned from the other Universe; you haven't left her side. I had thought at this point that it was rather obvious." Walter nodded eagerly, unable to contain his excitement.

"You were spying on us, weren't you?" Peter said flatly, folding his arms. Walter's smile lost a little of its brilliance, and he got a shifty look in his eyes. Peter nodded once, frowning. "Fantastic."

"There was a huge crash; I simply came out to investigate. I thought perhaps we were being attacked." Peter dropped his chin. He really should have known. In fact, he couldn't believe it hadn't occurred to him last night. He pinched the bridge of his nose and took a breath, then glanced up at the sunlight streaming in through the windows, and decided that he wasn't going to let this ruin his mood.

"Alright, Walter, we'll make pancakes—" Walter's face lifted excitedly. "—but only if you promise not to mention this again. To ANYONE." Walter's face fell a little, but he nodded.

"Very well, Peter, although I think you're being a bit unreasonable—" There was a knock at the door, and Peter went over and looked through the peephole. It was Astrid. He undid the locks and pulled the door open.

"Hey, Astrid."

"Hi Peter, I'm just on my way to the train station to pick up Rachael and Ella. Their train gets in at 7:20."

"Okay, thanks. I really appreciate it." He swiped Olivia's keys off of the coffee table and dropped them into Astrid's open palm. Walter came over to the door, looking eager. Peter turned over his shoulder and mouthed the words "OR NO PANCAKES" to Walter, whose face fell slightly. He nodded.

"Agent Farnsworth, Peter says we can have pancakes this morning!"

"That sounds great, Walter! I think I put the pancake mix in the cabinet next to the sink. We'll have to get some syrup from the store, though. Would you like to come to the train station with me? I'm going to pick up Ella and Rachael." Walter nodded excitedly and looked at Peter.

"May I go with Agent Farnsworth to the train station, Peter?" Peter frowned a little, hesitating, but then nodded his assent. Knowing Walter, the cat would get out of the bag eventually. He just hoped it would be later rather than sooner, and also preferably not within Broyles' earshot. He wondered how long the pancake threat would hold. Walter hurried back into his room to get dressed quickly, returning a minute later in his slacks, button-up shirt, and sweater.

"Peter, I'll call you when we're leaving the train station." Astrid put her hand on Walter's shoulder to guide him down the hall.

"I'll see you when you get back. Have fun, Walter. Thanks again, Astrid—and don't let him get too close." Astrid nodded and they turned and left, Walter chattering excitedly about trains. Peter closed the door behind them and redid the locks, thinking about the last time he'd taken Walter to the train station. They'd nearly both been arrested because Walter had produced a voltmeter and had been attempting to measure something involving the third rail. Peter never had figured out exactly what he'd been up to; he'd been slightly more concerned with convincing the nice officer that honestly, they weren't terrorists, that everything, really, was just fine, and no, of course they didn't need to be strip-searched. Please.


	7. Chapter 7: Equilibrium

Peter felt his good mood slipping as he dropped his hand from the door, shaking his head. Finding and taking care of Olivia had consumed most of his attention the past few days, but now that he had more time to think it was hard to avoid confronting the issue of Walter. His feelings about Walter were all just so… convoluted. He'd decided to give himself a few days to mull it over, process everything that had happened, before really making a decision about whether to stay with Walter. He went back and forth about it all the time. On the one hand, Walter had taken Peter to save him; on the other, he'd snatched him out of his bed at the age of seven and never returned him home again. Of course there was the flipside of that—Peter's real father had crossed worlds to get him back, but he was also, apparently, in the Universe-destroying business, had tried to get Peter unwittingly involved, had sent a spy after Peter, and had captured and tortured the woman that Peter loved to get information.

Peter shook his head again, thinking about what William Bell had said to this Walter. _You didn't like what you were becoming. _ But that didn't excuse everything that Walter had done; it was just one more knot in the tangled mess.

There were few times when Peter felt completely inept, but this was one of them. He just didn't know how to deal with all of it. He wondered if someone else, someone with a different background, would have had a better skill-set for processing it all. As it was, he was just incredibly angry all the time, but the anger was confounded by a vague sense of responsibility and guilt, too; this Walter couldn't even do the laundry on his own without filling half the house with soap foam. Of course, at this point feeling like he owed Walter something just made him angrier, and underneath everything was a horrible engulfing sadness that he could hardly acknowledge, even to himself (he supposed anger was preferable to the other option—falling to pieces—which he was desperately trying to avoid). His own voice came back to him, unbidden. _I don't know who I am anymore._

He shoved his hands into his pockets, shoulders hunched. Sometimes he didn't know why he'd come back—it didn't really make much sense. Of course it wasn't a choice anymore of _which_ Walter—Peter figured he'd pass on world-annihilation this week—but that didn't mean he had to go back to living with _this_ Walter. He still wasn't sure he wouldn't move out. Of course he wasn't planning on going anywhere—he would stay because this was where Olivia was—but Boston was a big enough city for him to avoid Walter. If he wanted to.

But he had come home to Walter, and he had to admit that it meant something. He'd called them a little family unit, once… and he'd meant it when he'd said he didn't want to jeopardize that. He dropped his chin. _Keep your people close. _The familiar ache rose in his chest as he thought of his mother… but even that wasn't simple anymore. He bit his lip against the sharp new sorrow that accompanied it as he thought of the other mother he'd left behind (he hadn't even been able to say goodbye). The miserable abyss of all the losses he'd suffered in his life yawned wide, singing to him, but again he pushed it back_. _He refused to lose it—he was needed here, and he needed to stay sharp.

Peter stood up straighter, folding his arms against his chest. He just needed to give it more time. Time to think, time to understand. Peter had spent almost half his life being the lost boy, and he had to admit to himself that he'd tired of it. As… well, fucked up and dysfunctional as it was, he'd thought he'd found something here, once—something that he had spent a lot of time looking for. He wasn't sure if it would, but he wanted this to work. So, in spite of himself, he was here giving it a try.

He walked over to the coffee table and picked up his phone, thinking that he ought to call Broyles. They hadn't heard anything more about the search for Olivia's alternate, which gave Peter a bad feeling. He wondered how long it would take for her to find them here; he figured they probably had another couple days at most. It helped that they hadn't been expecting to go to New York. He'd feel better when they got the okay from Broyles to return to Boston—more familiar territory, with the resources of Fringe division in closer range. For a second he toyed with the idea that it might be best for him to leave on his own, and lead the alternate Olivia and Newton (who had to be in on this, too) somewhere far away from here. It was him that they wanted, after all—but they would probably come after Olivia, Walter, and the others anyway, to glean any information they could. An image flashed in his mind of a woman with a hole in her skull, missing a piece of her temporal lobe, and he suppressed a shudder. No, he would stay.

He was also worried that having Rachael and Ella come to them in New York might give them away… but it was most important that Rachael and Ella be protected, too. He knew Olivia would never forgive herself if something happened to them, and they were an open target by themselves in Boston. It would do Olivia good to see her sister and her niece. Besides, they really had no idea what the alternate Olivia was up to. She could be in hiding from _them_, for all they knew. But that wasn't her style, and he had a gut feeling that they needed to be on the move. He gritted his teeth, wishing he could think of something else to make them better prepared. At the very least, he'd like to have several more guns, and a lot more ammunition. But that meant leaving Olivia, and that just wasn't an option. He would call Broyles—if Olivia was improved enough to be moved tomorrow, he'd push Broyles to let them come home. If not, he'd at least ask Broyles to get some more guns sent over.

"Peter?" Olivia called from her room. There was a slight edge to her voice that made him hurry, and he was at the door in two steps, pulling it open. She was sitting up in bed, looking anxious. When she saw him come into the room, her face relaxed minutely, which she immediately tried to cover by raising her eyebrows slightly. She slipped her hand from beneath the pillow, where she'd hidden the gun, presumably. He'd left it on the nightstand, but it wasn't there anymore.

"I'm right here, 'Livia. You okay?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine." She dropped her chin, refusing to look him in the eyes. "I, ah, just wanted to know where you and Walter were, that's all. I heard the door open and close." He nodded, taking a few steps forward, unable to help himself. He wanted to be near her. He touched the edge of the bed.

"How's your leg?" She looked down at the lump of her leg under the blanket, and he watched her face carefully for any sign of pain. He knew she'd try to tough it out—he didn't trust her to tell him she was in pain.

"I'm okay, Peter." She finally met his gaze and smiled a little, raising her eyebrows again. He nodded, exhaling, and smiled wryly. _'Livia. But you were captured, tortured, shot, and almost killed in another dimension. A guy's got a right to be concerned. _"Would you fill me in on what's been going on? What happened to... you know, the other me?" He frowned. He had known she'd ask, sooner or later, and as much as he wanted to shield her from it, she had a right to know.

"She's gone, and we haven't heard anything since she disappeared. Broyles has people out looking for her. We don't really know anything other than that." Olivia frowned and opened her mouth, and he cut her off, knowing what she was going to say. "Look, Olivia, there is nothing we can do, at least not while we're here in New York. _You_ need to rest—you can't do anything with that shot-up leg, anyway. Once we get back to Boston, we'll figure out the next step, but right now you just need to focus on getting better." It wasn't exactly true—there was one other thing that she could do: try to remember what they'd wanted from her on the other side. But he wasn't going to bring that up, not here, not now. He was sure she was trying to remember, anyway. Walter had some ideas to help her, back at the lab… ideas that Peter didn't like (and knowing Olivia, she'd be all for it). They'd get there, but he didn't want to push her, and he wanted her to rest up as much as possible. She gave him a look that was equal parts impatience and irritation.

"Peter, give me your phone—I need to call Broyles." She held out her hand, expectantly, and he frowned at her, disapproving. She jiggled her hand. "Peter—" It was a warning tone. Sighing, he pulled the phone out of his pocket; he didn't really want to make her mad, and he'd known she wouldn't just take his word for it, anyway (as annoying as it was, there was something slightly comforting in that—after everything, she was still Olivia). She dialed the number.

But Broyles was apparently thinking along the same lines as Peter. He gave her a "nothing to report" and a "you need rest, Dunham" and she nodded into the phone curtly with an icy "yes, sir" before hanging up. Looking cross, she handed the phone to Peter and folded her arms.

"Did you put him up to that?"

"No." Peter answered honestly. _But I would have._ She frowned. Peter shifted his weight, fishing for a distraction. He looked over at her.

"Hey, guess what? Rachael and Ella are coming down on the train. Astrid and Walter just went to pick them up." Olivia's face brightened for a moment, and then she looked down at herself in the hospital bed, encircling her bandaged left wrist with her right hand. Frowning slightly, she reached up and felt her eye, which was still bloody and a little swollen, and then her lip. "'Livia, they know you've been in an accident. They're anxious to see that you're okay." She dropped her chin and nodded. Peter put a hand on her arm, and she looked up at him. "For once, would you please let _us_ take care of _you_?" She pursed her lips, still looking vaguely irritated. "You should try to go back to sleep. You need rest." At that she nodded, smiling a tight little smile as she smoothed the comforter underneath her hand. Something about her expression said she didn't think that was terribly likely. He dropped his hand and stepped back toward the door, hoping she would at least try.

"'Livia, you need anything else—I'll be right outside." If he hadn't been paying attention, he would have missed the way her face fell, just a fraction, as he moved toward the door. He was confused—hadn't he just pissed her off?—and wondered for a second if he'd gotten carried away with the warm, fuzzy feelings that seemed to be proliferating like rabbits in his chest, but then she tried to cover it with a yawn. He hesitated, unsure of what to do, watching the way she was picking at the comforter, wishing she would just ask for what she wanted—but then she wouldn't have been Olivia. Olivia, who always looked out for everyone else, often at her own expense, but never herself. He hedged, wanting to do what he could for her, not wanting to crowd. _Sweetheart, what do you need?_ He watched her expression, carefully, brows knit together.

"Or, if you don't mind, I could stay in here." Her head came up, and he watched her try to frame the words to tell him that she didn't need him to stay—oh, I'm fine, Peter—but to his surprise she just opened her mouth and then closed it again, dropping her head. Peter went and got his laptop out of the common room, and when he came back she'd already scooted over, making room on the bed for him to sit. He frowned a little. It was nice to be needed, but she was also worrying him. _'Livia, what did they do to you? _It was clear that something had her shaken up, more than he'd ever seen, and that summoned another, darker spectrum of his feelings for her.

The flipside of his newly-kindled protectiveness—of everything that had happened, really—was a black rage that boiled, volatile, just beneath the surface, waiting to spill over at the people who had done this to her—the same people who had lied to him, tried to use him for their own destructive ends. No, Peter had no shortage of anger. He ground his teeth together, getting a bit of an adrenaline rush just thinking about it. If anything could have convinced him to leave, it would have been that—he wanted so badly to be out there, hunting them, but at the moment Olivia needed him here and that meant he wasn't going anywhere. She looked up at him and he smiled at her, pushing the bloodlust into a corner of his mind. He'd have to be patient—he'd get his chance soon enough.

So he sat quietly with her and read news headlines online, and that seemed to satisfy her. Much to his relief, she settled back into her pillows and closed her eyes. He still needed to call Broyles, but he wanted to do it out of Olivia's earshot—he didn't think he'd be able to get her to relax again after that. He was reading an article in Arabic from Al Jazeerah when something touched his shoulder, and he looked down to see that she had finally fallen asleep again, and in her sleep had rolled toward him, pressing her forehead to his shoulder. Something deep tugged in his chest, and her words came to him again. _You belong with me._ He inclined his head. He was where he needed to be.


	8. Chapter 8: Pancakes

**A/N **Hey all, thank you so much for reading-I have been having such a good time writing this, and your reviews make my day! The next chapter after this one is almost finished and I will post it soon. Meanwhile, however, it is time for pancake breakfast!

* * *

About an hour later, Peter heard a quiet knock at the door and gently nudged Olivia awake. "'Livia… Hey. I think they're here." She opened her eyes and sat up quickly. Even though she knew it should be Astrid, Walter, Ella, and Rachael, Olivia reached under the pillows for the gun, face tense. Peter moved toward the door, hoping that it was them (with one gun and limited ammo, he didn't like their odds in a shootout. The sooner they got back to Boston, the better). Astrid had sent him a text message that they'd found Rachael and Ella and were on their way back to the hotel. The message had ended, intriguingly, with, "don't let him get too close, huh?". Peter had wanted to call her back and ask her how the train outing went with Walter, but Olivia had been asleep on his shoulder and he hadn't wanted to wake her. He reached the door and looked through the peephole; to his relief, it was Astrid and the others, and Peter turned and called to Olivia that it was ok as he quickly undid the locks. Walter drifted toward the kitchen, and Astrid followed with a slightly cross expression, carrying a paper grocery sack. Rachael and Ella made a beeline for Olivia's room.

Upon seeing Olivia, Ella squealed, "Aunt Liv, what happened to your hair? And your eye's all funny! I made you a get well card!" She went to jump up on the bed and Peter snatched her out of the air before she could jostle Olivia's leg.

"Let's be careful not to bump your Aunt Liv's leg, okay?" He set her down safely in his spot next to Olivia, who had already opened her arms to wrap Ella in a huge bear hug.

"Hi, baby girl!" Ella held out the card, which was hand-colored. Olivia gave her a wide, open-mouthed smile, admiring the illustrations. "Thank you very, very much! This is beautiful! Did you do this all by yourself?" Ella nodded, pleased. Olivia hugged her with one arm and pointed to a purple hippopotamus. "I especially like the hippo."

"Aunt Liv, what happened?" The little girl reached up and touched the left side of Olivia's face, gently, just underneath her eye. Olivia met her gaze and gave her a little shake, smiling.

"Don't worry, silly! I was in an accident, that's all. I know I look bad, but I'll get better soon. I feel better already, now that you're here!" She looked over Ella's head as she said this, watching Rachael's expression. Rachael put a hand on the foot of the bed and smiled a little, looking anxious as she cocked her head to one side. "You had me worried, Liv—this is your second big accident in less than a year!" Olivia pursed her lips, nodded once, and looked down.

"I know, Rach—I'm really sorry for worrying you." Rachael nodded. Peter could see that Rachael would have liked to have said more, but then she glanced down at her daughter, and didn't speak.

"Hey Ella," Peter said, "Would you like to help Walter, Astrid, and me make pancakes? When I was little my favorite breakfast was pancakes shaped like whales—what do you think? You can help flip." Ella hesitated, looking at Olivia.

"I want to stay with Aunt Liv." Olivia hugged her again, kissing her cheek.

"I would really love to eat a whale-shaped pancake, especially if you made it, baby-girl. Would you do that for me?" Ella nodded, and Rachael gave Peter a grateful smile as Ella clambered off the bed. Ella looked up at Peter.

"Can I make a hippo-shaped pancake?" Peter smiled.

"Sure. Did you know that hippos and whales are actually related?" Ella made a face, incredulous.

"Really?" Peter nodded.

"Yep. They both like the water, right?" As they left the room, Rachael moved around the bed to be closer to Olivia. Out of the corner of his eye, Peter saw Rachael glance at Olivia and then back at him, giving him an appraising look. Crossing the common room, Peter heard her ask (with a slight smile in her voice),

"So, Liv, you didn't tell me you were thinking about dying your hair. What inspired the change?"

Ella followed Peter out to the kitchen where Astrid and Walter were assembling ingredients. It appeared that there had already been some sort of mixer debacle—there was pancake batter smeared across three of the four cabinets—but Astrid seemed to be taking it all in stride. _That woman is a saint._ Peter was impressed that the kitchen even had an electric mixer, but the suite was really more of a condo than a hotel room—they owed a thank-you to whichever junior agent had made the reservation. Ella skipped over to Astrid, who helped her climb up on a stool so that she could reach the counter.

"Astrid, Uncle Walter, Peter said I could help make pancakes!"

"Well, hello, my dear. Yes, we could use your help. Here." Walter had been slicing bananas into the batter, and he handed another one to Ella to peel. Astrid smiled and held up a bag of chocolate chips.

"We were thinking we'd add some chocolate chips—what do you think, Ella?" Ella nodded enthusiastically, focusing on peeling her banana. "Hey Peter, would you help us set the table? And I'm not sure that we have enough chairs for everyone." Astrid turned from the sink and indicated a stack of plates, forks, and napkins on the counter. From the knowing smile that she gave him over her shoulder, Peter figured Walter had already spilled the beans. _Ah, well. Had to happen, eventually._ He didn't mind Astrid knowing, but he hoped that it would be a while before Broyles caught wind—Peter wasn't particularly looking forward to that conversation.

Peter carried the plates over to the diminutive dining room table and set out six places, listening to Walter and Ella chatter good-naturedly with occasional interjections from Astrid. He set down the last plate and looked at the little table. _I LIKE having everyone here,_ he realized, and half-smiled, wryly. He shook his head. _You're getting domesticated, Bishop. _The thought didn't bother him as much as he'd thought it would.

When the pancakes were finished, Astrid put them in the oven to keep warm while Walter went in to give Olivia a quick check-up. Rachael was sitting on the edge of the bed, her hand on Olivia's uninjured knee, and both women looked up as Walter, Astrid, Ella, and Peter entered the room. Walter produced his pen-light and examined Olivia's pupils and throat, pinched the back of her hand, and declared that she could be taken off the IV drip, "granted you promise to eat well and stay hydrated, Agent Dunham". Olivia smiled a tight smile and nodded once, still looking slightly dis-at-ease in Walter's company, though she tried hard not to show it. Peter gritted his teeth at another flare of anger toward her captors and tried to block it out, exhaling slowly.

Walter and Astrid went back out to put the pancakes on the table while Rachael dug around in the closet, bringing out a bathrobe for Olivia to wear over her hospital gown. Peter and Rachael helped Olivia stand, and Peter saw her wince slightly once as she moved her injured leg, but aside from a slight tension around her eyes she managed not to betray her pain. He shook his head slightly. _'Livia._ Peter retrieved the crutches from the corner and as Olivia limped out to the common room, Ella danced circles around her, chattering excitedly about the whale pancakes she had made, until Rachael had to tell her to stop.

Walter and Ella had gotten carried away, in spite of Astrid, and had made about twice as many pancakes as five adults and one small kid could eat. They all crowded around the tiny kitchen table, bumping elbows, trying not to get syrup on each other. Olivia set the crutches aside, and slowly eased herself into her chair, leaning heavily on Peter's arm (Peter deliberately ignored Walter's delighted grin). Once she was settled, Ella proudly presented her with a whale pancake, and Olivia smiled appreciatively and took a huge bite, much to Ella's delight—it made them both giggle, and Rachael smiled. Meanwhile, Walter reached over to put yet another pat of butter on his pancake—this would have been number three—and Astrid smacked his wrist, giving him a stern look that made him relinquish the butter-knife regretfully.

Peter looked down at the whale pancake on his own plate, and a wave of sadness overtook him that he was unable to keep it at bay. He thought of his mother, of summers on the beach and Walter making pancakes on Saturday, and he dropped his chin at the weight of the sorrow in his chest, struggling to keep his mouth from twisting down into a distressed frown. Far from hungry, he felt slightly nauseous, and he shifted in his chair, awash in misery borne by an innocent animal-shaped breakfast food. _Pancakes, of all things. Why did I let Walter do this? _

He took a deep breath, struggling for composure, and after a moment he was able to look up again. He glanced around the table as everyone smiled, ate, chatted. Aside from the fact that there were probably shape-changers after them, Olivia had a gunshot wound, and three of the six people at the table had recently traveled between universes, it was a perfectly normal, happy family breakfast—the kind of breakfasts that normal people have in their normal homes. Peter couldn't remember the last time he'd been at a breakfast like this. He wasn't sure what made him sadder: the fact that his mother wasn't here to share this with them, or the fact that he'd missed out on these kinds of things for twenty-some-odd years of his life. Olivia glanced over at him and his uneaten whale, and she must have seen something in his face because she smiled at him and inclined her head slightly to one side, brows knit. Peter smiled a little back, sadly. _Come on, at least don't ruin it for her. She needs this. _Ella looked up at Olivia and then over at Peter's plate, frowning when she saw his pancake there, untouched.

"Peter, aren't you going to eat your whale?" He looked down at her very serious expression and then laughed suddenly, casting off his melancholy, and it was as though that laugh bore the answer to many things. _You let Walter do this because you needed it as much as they did—maybe even as much as _she_ did. _Peter felt something loosen in his chest and he exhaled, leaning back in his chair. He watched the tension drain slowly from Olivia's face as, surrounded by her family, she downed the rest of her cetacean-shaped pancake, grinning the entire time. Finally hungry, Peter picked up his fork and took a bite.


	9. Chapter 9: Go Fish

**A/N:** Hey all, the next chapter, as promised-actually, it got so long I decided to split it into two.

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When they had finished breakfast, Rachael helped Olivia shower and wash her hair—a big production because of the gunshot wound, which needed to be kept dry. Astrid and Ella hurried back and forth bringing medical tape, scissors, saran wrap and at one point a big, black, plastic garbage bag. Peter watched the activity from the sofa and, having dealt with gunshot wounds before, briefly considered offering to help, but since it was only eleven and he didn't feel like spending the rest of the day with a fat lip, he decided against it. In any case, Walter was getting a little stir-crazy and had decided to make a quiche in the kitchen, and Peter wanted to keep an eye on him. He snagged Walter's copy of _Science_ off of the coffee table and flipped through it, settling on an article about the coding of short-term memory in the hippocampus.

Cheeks pink and hair braided, Olivia emerged from her room an hour later and hobbled slowly out to the couch with Astrid and Rachael's help, where she sat and watched Peter do magic tricks for Ella until she fell asleep and slept most of the day (nobody begrudged her the couch). Walter's quiche turned out to be surprisingly edible, which was something of a consolation considering the disaster in which he left the kitchen. They'd agreed it was best to minimize their trips out of the hotel, for safety, so when they had finished the last of the dishes, Peter, Walter, and Rachael spent the majority of the day reading and playing checkers and Go Fish with Ella (Walter was a horrible, shameless cheat) while Astrid worked on a report.

Peter had finally gotten a call from Broyles around four, who warned him that Massive Dynamic had caught Olivia's alternate on tape at a train station in Boston, but they didn't know which train she had boarded. Broyles and Peter agreed that it was time for all of them to get back to Boston, but that it would be best to drive back in the morning, after Broyles could arrange an armed escort. At Peter's suggestion, he'd sent someone over with a plain, unmarked duffel bag, the contents of which immediately made Peter feel a whole lot safer. _You know, Broyles, for a suit, you're okay. _Peter spent a few hours in Walter's room filing the metal jackets off of one of the boxes of bullets and making sure that the handguns and sawed-off shotgun were in working order. He, Olivia, Astrid, and Rachael (much to her dismay) were all armed now, thanks to Broyles. Peter patted the hand gun he had tucked in the waistband of his jeans, lamenting that he couldn't wear it in a shoulder holster instead, but he wasn't going to wear it openly in front of Ella. He shook his head. This was no place to have children, but he just didn't have a better solution. As long as Olivia's alternate was on the loose, none of them were safe.

In the evening Walter, Rachael, Ella, and Astrid settled down to watch a movie across the hall in Rachael and Ella's room, "to give Olivia some quiet". Though he suspected Astrid's hand in this, Peter wasn't about to argue—he was grateful to have Olivia to himself for a few hours. Peter deliberately ignored Walter's blatant wink and double thumbs up as he followed Astrid out the door.


	10. Chapter 10: TRex and Cowboys

**A/N: **Here we venture into what I consider to be CiderApples' territory, so let it be known that this has been inspired by her incredible work. Thank you all for reading this far! I'm really pretty happy with this chapter, so enjoy.

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Olivia didn't wake up until after the others had left. Peter sat down on the floor beside her and leaned back against the sofa, watching her slow return to consciousness. Eventually she opened her bright green eyes, quietly looking over at him through a haze of sleep. The day had done her good—the dark circles under her eyes had lightened, and she'd gotten some color back, but most of all she'd lost a bit of that anxious pinch to her face. It relieved him more than he could say. She'd come back to them incomplete… as haunted as she'd ever been, before. Broken, even (he hated to think it—his chest tightened in anger, and he gritted his teeth; _soon_). But the day had given him hope that she would overcome it, in time. Peter inclined his head, murmuring, "Hey". She put a hand over her face and yawned, then stretched and sat up a little.

"Hey. How long did I sleep?" Her voice was a little groggy.

"Several hours. How are you feeling?" She frowned slightly at his answer, probably feeling guilty for sleeping through the day instead of spending more time with Rachael and Ella, and then hesitated at the question for a fraction of a second before she raised her eyes to meet his gaze.

"Peter, I'm fine." She was a good liar, but she was also predictable. Peter shook his head. She opened her mouth to argue, but he cut her off.

"Uh-uh, you hesitated, which means that it is time for Señor Percocet." To his surprise, she didn't argue. He retrieved the bottle from the nightstand in her room and went to fill a glass of water in the kitchen.

"Where is everyone else?" She called after him.

"They went across the hall to watch a movie in Rachael and Ella's room. Something about dinosaurs. Walter promised to save us some Junior Mints." _Although the likelihood that they'll survive the entire movie is questionable._

"Ah. Ella loves dinosaurs. I loved dinosaurs, too, when I was little."

"Yeah, me too. My favorite was always Deinonychus. You know, the one with the big claw?" He made a claw with his free hand, and she wrinkled her nose, smiling.

"Really? I was always a t-rex kind of girl." Peter chuckled. _I bet you were._ Olivia lifted her face to look at him as she took the glass and the pills. "Thanks." Peter dropped his chin to look at the carpet. _Of course, sweetheart. _She tossed the pills back with a big gulp of water.

"Are you hungry? I think we have enough pancakes left to feed a small country… The other option is delicious, nutritious freezer pizza." He pulled the box out of the freezer and looked at the ingredients. "Mmm, this one has at least five ingredients that are also components in shampoo and fabric softener. How much do you want to bet Walter picked this out?" He held the box up and raised his eyebrows at her as he jiggled it a little in the air. Olivia looked at him and smiled a bit as she rolled her eyes.

"Pizza sounds good." She shifted on the sofa, leaning back. "Can I have a beer with it?" Her tone was wistful. Peter shook his head.

"Not on those drugs, you can't." She frowned a little, making him wonder if, had she been able, she'd have just gone for the fridge herself. He tossed her the TV guide and set the oven to preheat. "Your choice, but just so you know, I refuse to watch anything with Nicolas Cage in it." She laughed—she actually laughed, and he reveled in the sound of it—as she flipped the guide open and turned the tube to, of all things, the original 1939 version of _Stagecoach_. He stuck the pizza in the oven, set the timer, and got a beer for himself and a soda for Olivia out of the fridge. She'd unbraided her hair and it draped over the arm of the couch as she reclined, sipping her root beer, legs stretched out. Peter watched her settling into the sofa, thinking mysterious, half-formed thoughts about the way the light fell on her skin and the color of her eyes, until he was interrupted by the timer. He pulled the pizza out of the oven when it was done, cut it into slices, and set it down on the coffee table. Returning to the sofa with some plates, he gestured, indicating her sprawl. She moved her good leg but before she could struggle to move the injured one he very gently picked it up and sat down with it in his lap, tucking a pillow underneath for support. Olivia looked a little surprised but eventually she put her other leg in his lap, too. He rested a hand lightly on her shin, trying not to marvel at its smooth planes, and pointed at the TV with his beer. "I didn't know you liked westerns." She inclined her head, chewing a mouthful of pizza, and licked the corner of her lip.

"I went to boarding school and the only movies the library had were old black-and-white films and PBS specials." She had tucked her root beer into the crook of her arm, and she had her plate of pizza sitting on her chest. "There's a great shot coming up—" She raised her arm all of sudden to point at a frame of John Wayne silhouetted as he leaned in an alleyway, and spilled her root beer. It had still been mostly full, making a huge puddle that soaked brownly into the sofa cushion and her t-shirt. "Shit." She muttered, moving the pizza and sitting up halfway, hands fluttering as she realized she would just have to wait for him to get something to clean it up. _I'm no good at sitting around._ Peter pushed her legs off his lap, gently, and went to get a dishtowel. She was generally a very graceful woman; he figured it was the meds. "God, Peter, I'm sorry." She frowned, embarrassed. He shook his head and grabbed a couple towels from the cabinet, bending to help her sop up the mess.

She looked down at the spill just as he bent over it and they bumped heads, each jumping back a little, looking up at each other. Both of them paused, startled by the proximity, and Peter felt his heart beat harder in his chest, accelerating at her closeness. She knit her brows together, green eyes wide, and he slowly let go of the towels and raised his hand to stroke her cheekbone lightly with his thumb. About seven thousand different things that he'd wanted to say to her since she got back flashed through his mind. He wanted to tell her that he wasn't going anywhere—that he would be here for her, as long as she wanted him. He wanted to tell her that he'd come back to this Universe because he hadn't wanted to be used to start an apocalypse, but that he'd come back to Boston because he'd realized that no place was home without her. Most of all, he wanted to tell her that he loved her. _It took watching you almost die—twice—to make me admit that. _He swallowed, unable to stop himself from glancing quickly at her mouth, torn between kissing her and pouring his heart out into her hands (they were two forms of the same thing, really).

"'Livia—" He breathed her name, watching her expression. He didn't want to spook her. Her eyebrows knit together as her green eyes flicked back and forth between his. She looked nervous, uncertain.

"Peter, I—I don't know how to do this," She said it like an apology, a request for guidance, not an admonition. Her brow wrinkled further; her face was full of unspoken sorrow. But she was trying; he could see it in her eyes. Her gaze flicked down to his mouth, and she inhaled shakily, making his decision for him. Stroking her cheek with his thumb, he leaned in even closer—their lips were just centimeters apart, now, and he could smell her plumeria shampoo and feel her warm breath on his face—and he whispered,

"Don't worry, 'Livia." Then he covered her mouth with his, pouring his heart out through his open lips as he kissed her deeply, ferociously even, gripping the t-shirt fabric at her waist tight in his right fist as he cradled her head in his left palm. She had a hand at his neck and she buried it in his hair, pulling him closer as he deepened the kiss. Her other hand was pressed against his chest, and he knew she could feel his heart racing beneath her palm as they kissed until they were breathless. When he finally had to take a breath he pulled back, their brows just touching, wanting to see her expression as they breathed in tiny gasps together. She met his gaze, looking up from her hand over his heart.

"Peter," She whispered, sending chills over the back of his neck and down his spine. The dishtowels lay on the floor, forgotten, as the root beer soaked quietly into the couch. He was still leaning toward her, helplessly snared by her gaze and her breath and the taste of her lips, and she drew his face down to hers, pressing her open mouth into his, returning his kiss with even greater urgency. He spread his fingers over her ribcage, wanting to memorize its arc and curve, feeling her rapid, shallow breaths fill the space within.

Gently, he knelt in front of her on the couch and she leaned back, pulling him down so that he was kneeling over her, supporting himself on his hands and knees as he carefully avoided bumping her leg. He slid his hand down her ribcage, feeling her waist, gripping her tightly—almost too tightly—as though he was afraid she might suddenly disappear. He pressed his lips to her jaw, just underneath her ear, and she arched her neck as he worked his way down, groaning softly in the back of her throat. She still had one hand on his neck, and she slipped the other one under the edge of his t-shirt, pressing her fingertips into the sensitive skin at the small of his back, raising goose-bumps at her touch. He nuzzled her shirt collar aside and kissed the point where the tendons of her neck joined her clavicle, eliciting a new set of sounds from her throat that made his heart pound even more wildly under his sternum as his blood rushed and bubbled through his veins and made him feel lightheaded.

Pressing his face into her neck, he inhaled deeply, shivering as a wave of need washed over him, blurring his senses, making it difficult to focus. He twisted his fingers into her hair as he touched his lips to her neck again, biting and licking, and she arched into him, moaning, pressing her breasts up against his chest. He could feel her nipples through the thin fabric of their t-shirts and another, more intense wave of need drowned him, making him grip her waist even more tightly as he pressed himself into her and she pressed back, clutching him to her with her palm at his back, digging in with her fingernails.

He raised his face to hers and kissed her again as his heart pounded in his throat, wanting desperately to drink her in, to climb into her skin. Answering him in kind, she drew him to her roughly, pulling his hair as she bit his lip savagely, and he groaned aloud into her mouth. He felt her lips form his name against his own. "_Peter—_" Shuddering, unable to control himself, he ground his hips into hers—and froze as a quiet hiss of pain escaped her lips. He backed off quickly and sat up, instantly feeling horrible as he realized he'd forgotten himself and pushed his leg into her injured thigh.

"_Fuck_, 'Livia, I'm so sorry—" He shook his head, hands balled into fists, furious with himself.

"Peter, it's okay, I'm okay—" She tugged on the bottom of his t-shirt, trying to pull him back in, but he wasn't having it. His jaw worked, ticking. He exhaled forcefully, thoroughly disgusted with himself.

"No… no—I don't want to hurt you." They sat together for a minute, quietly, breathing hard. "I'm sorry," He said again, dropping his chin as he frowned. He picked the towels off the ground and pressed them into the sopping couch cushions, refusing to meet her gaze. Root beer had soaked its way up the entire right side of her tee. "Here—I'll get you something different to change into." He dug around in his backpack and pulled out a t-shirt. Apparently no one had thought to tell Rachael to bring some extra clothes for Olivia with her when she came down on the train. Peter wouldn't have had clothes with him, either, except that before they'd left he'd grabbed the small bag of clothes and toiletries that he kept at the lab (frequently things at the lab got messy… frequently things at the lab got downright revolting). He pulled out a soft, faded-blue t-shirt and handed it to her, still frowning as he turned his back to let her change (he was too disgusted with himself to even think about peeking). _Calm down, it's okay, she's okay, she's tough... Jesus, fucking-clumsy-ass. Inexcusable. _

He stood there with his hands balled at his sides, mentally berating himself. Their freezer pizza lay abandoned on the coffee table, cold. Eventually he felt a light touch on his back. She'd scooted to the end of the couch and was calling him back to her, smiling ruefully. He'd half expected her to be angry—not because he'd bumped her leg, but because he knew she didn't want to be treated as fragile. "At least sit with me, then." He sat back down on the couch, stiffly, and she snuggled against him, moving the pizza to the floor so that she could prop her leg up on the coffee table. "Come on, Peter, I'm okay." He exhaled, willing himself to let it go, and put an arm around her. Then he impulsively kissed the top of her head, forcefully, and she exhaled and leaned into him more heavily. _I love you, 'Livia, _he thought, a little sadly_. I'm afraid I'm not very good at it._

They sat together and watched men on horseback race across the screen, lit together by its flickering light.


	11. Chapter 11: Mistake

**A/N**: Alright, buckle your seat-belts, kids. You knew it was coming eventually.

Oh, and thank you all for the lovely reviews. You made my week. :)

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It was when Peter woke to Olivia's quiet chuckle that he realized he'd fallen asleep. Opening his eyes a tiny fraction, he snuck a peek at Olivia and saw that she was grinning at the TV, laughing to herself. _There you go, sweetheart._ He stayed still and kept his eyes mostly closed, loath to disturb her lighthearted mood, fearing that as soon as she realized he was awake she'd close up. He still had his arm around her and she was leaning into it, picking the pepperoni off of a long-cold piece of pizza. _Stagecoach_ had finished and she'd moved on to one of the _Thin Man_ movies, which she apparently found highly amusing. He liked the tiny crease at the corner of her mouth, the way her eyebrows lifted when she smiled. Mostly he just liked to see her happy—he found himself fighting to keep from smiling with her and giving himself away.

Peter didn't remember when he'd fallen asleep, but it had probably been a while ago, judging by the degree of numbness in his right arm. Still, he wasn't going to move it until he had to—there was something about watching her sit there comfortably with his arm around her shoulders, wearing his t-shirt, that pulled at a familiar place in his chest.

It was also kind of a turn-on.

He watched her mouth, remembering the feel of it against his—the taste of her—and her waist under his hands. Peter felt a flush of warmth that was accompanied by a fleeting fantasy of pressing his lips to the very corner of her mouth, of tasting it with the tip of his tongue, of slipping his hand under the hem of her t-shirt—but this thought was almost instantly interrupted by chagrin and a small flare of anger as he recalled the disastrous end to the last time he'd kissed her. He closed his eyes as he felt a frown tugging at his lips, but thankfully the edge of his self-frustration seemed to have dissipated with sleep. He half-opened his eyes again and looked at her, needing to reassure himself that she was okay even though he knew she was fine.

Olivia glanced over at him and he closed his eyes quickly, hoping that she wouldn't see that he was watching her, but she noticed that he was awake and nudged him playfully in the ribs. "Hey, look who's awake!" Peter snorted, grinning wryly at being discovered, and sat up. He moved his arm from the back of the couch and rubbed it vigorously in an attempt to restore some circulation. Olivia watched him withdraw his arm and then turned back to the TV. "Good, now maybe I can turn the volume down some—it was getting difficult to hear over all that snoring." She grinned at him wickedly and Peter raised his eyebrows as he realized she was flirting with him, couldn't help but smile.

"Uh huh. How long have you been sitting on that one?" She laughed.

"At least twenty minutes."

"Well, you should be glad I'm not my fa—Walter. He snores like a chainsaw when he's not reciting the Fibonacci sequence or the formula for acetylsalicylic acid." Olivia snorted, nodding.

"Right. I don't think the apple falls far from the tree." Peter shook his head wryly, and she laughed again, grinning, just as there was a knock at the door. The smile disappeared from Olivia's face faster than a popsicle in a heat wave and was replaced by a tense frown. Peter got up off the couch and walked over to the door, shaking his arm as pins and needles burned down the length of it. He checked the peephole and undid the locks, stepping aside to let Walter in, unable to block a wave of disappointment and frustration as he acknowledged that his evening with Olivia was at an end.

"—all I'm saying is that I think the illustrators ought to have been a bit more meticulous about the dinosaur anatomy. Perhaps consulting a certified paleontologist—" Walter was gesturing with his hands adamantly, clearly annoyed. Astrid patted his shoulder and pushed him gently toward the door.

"I know, Walter, but since it's a children's cartoon, I don't think they included a paleontologist in the budget. Oh, don't forget, here are your Junior Mints." She handed Walter a box that sounded mostly empty. Peter put a hand on the door and dredged up a smile, briefly, for Astrid.

"Thanks again, Astrid. You got the brief that Broyles sent?" Walter bustled past Peter.

"Yes, I got it. I think everything is ready to go."

"Good. See you in the morning, then." Astrid nodded.

"Goodnight, Walter. Goodnight, Peter. I'll see you in the morning." She smiled and turned down the hallway.

"Goodnight, Agent Farnsworth! Look, Peter, I saved you some junior mints, just as I promised." Walter handed Peter the box excitedly, pleased with himself. "How was your date with Agent Dunham?"

"It wasn't a date." Peter tried to keep his annoyance out of his voice as he pinched the box with his left hand and upended it into his right palm, which was still twinging with pins and needles. Succeeding in liberating a grand total of three mints, he chuckled to himself. _Well, he did save you some, as promised._ He chewed on a mint as he redid the locks. Walter wandered toward the sofa and sat down next to Olivia, smiling good-naturedly. Peter glanced up, watching Olivia carefully for any signs of anxiety, but aside from tensing slightly she appeared to be handling it okay. Walter chattered on, oblivious. Or perhaps not so oblivious. Peter had to give him credit—he was usually more perceptive than he appeared. Maybe this was his attempt at putting her at ease, showing her that he was different from his alternate.

"Agent Dunham, I didn't know you liked detective movies!" Walter reached over and picked up a slice of pizza.

"The _Thin Man_ series is great." Olivia was watching him from the corner of her eye, but Walter didn't seem to notice.

"Yes, Myrna Loy is just fantastic! Do you know, when I was twelve I discovered that my father had a series of some rather risqué old magazines; you know, photographs of actresses and—ahem—other models." Peter glanced up as Walter continued. "Myrna Loy was my absolute favorite! When my parents weren't home, I used to sneak one into my room and—" Peter cut him off.

"Walter, I think that's enough reminiscing about your happy childhood. And put the pizza down. It's 10:30pm and I don't think we have any Tums." Walter relinquished the pizza, rather sadly. "We should all probably get some sleep; we have an early start in the morning." Walter looked over at Peter.

"But Peter, I'd very much like to watch _Thin Man_. I'll sleep in the car, don't worry. I'll keep the volume down so that you can go to bed, although don't understand why you'd be tired—Olivia told us that you took a nap earlier." Peter glanced at Olivia, who raised her eyebrows as she frowned.

"When did I say that, Walter?" Walter was keenly watching Myrna Loy mix cocktails, eyes glued to the screen.

"You told us when you came over and watched part of _The Land Before Time_." Olivia glanced at Peter, her frown mirroring his own. Peter was beginning to get a tingling sensation in his fingertips that had nothing to do with his arm being asleep. The back of his neck prickled with foreboding.

"Walter, I never came over there. I can hardly walk on my own." Olivia raised her shoulders a little, wrinkling her forehead.

"Yes, you did, and you seemed to be doing just fine. I even let you eat some of my junior mints." He looked at their anxious faces and scoffed. "So if it wasn't you, who was it? Are you saying that you think that Alternate Olivia just stopped by to watch a movie with us? I hardly think—" He stopped, watching Olivia's panicked expression and the way Peter reached for his gun. "Do you?"

Just then, they heard a muffled scream, followed by a gunshot.


	12. Chapter 12: Pursuit

**A/N**: Hey everybody, I've really been enjoying all the comments and discussion, so thank you! Keep 'em coming! :)

I will be going on vacation with my family next week so my writing schedule may be kind of screwy for a little while. I'm planning on taking my computer and writing anyway (it is a vacation, after all-I'm supposed to get to do fun stuff, right?), but just in case I don't get a chance to update until I get back, you'll know that I haven't randomly decided to abandon everything.

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Peter was at the door throwing open the locks before he'd consciously thought about it, but then he hesitated, glancing back once at Olivia to make sure she was armed. She'd already snagged her gun out from between the couch cushions and had struggled into a standing position, leaning on the edge of the sofa with a mixture of anxiety and aggravation on her face. Watching him stop and turn back toward her, she gestured wildly at him. "Peter, _GO_!" He glanced at his father, who was halfway between the couch and the door, looking fearful.

"Walter, you _stay with Olivia_, you hear me?" He took a swift look into the hallway, bobbed out and back quickly to check that it was clear, and dashed out of the room.

A flash of auburn caught his eye as it disappeared around the corner, and Peter sprinted after it. He hesitated again for a split second as he passed Astrid's door, which was ajar, but he could hear Walter and Olivia behind him, so he put on a burst of speed after the Alternate. She threw open the door to the stairwell and hurtled down the stairs, Peter close on her heels. He didn't remember reaching for his gun but he found it in his hands and he took one, two shots at her, missing narrowly and chipping the concrete steps, before she rounded the corner of the stairs.

The bloodlust that he'd been nursing roared brilliantly to life, coupled with a chilling anxiety for Astrid, and between the two the adrenaline rush was so strong that it made him shudder, colored the edges of his vision as it shortened his breath. Consciously, firmly, he blocked it all out, slowed his breathing, and steadied his hands—he was the chess master, the strategist, focusing solely on the game and his quarry. He hurtled down after her, taking two and three steps at a time, descending into the cool, analytical combat mindset that he had cultivated over years of employment in warzones and 'sensitive' business arrangements. _I've been waiting for you, _he thought, with grim anticipation.

They plunged down several flights of stairs, the Alternate always just out of range. She was fast—she was surprisingly fast, maybe even faster than Olivia. _My Olivia. _At the ground level she threw open a door and disappeared into a service hallway, knocking over baskets of laundry and stacks of cleaning agents as she went. A cleaning woman—no more than a girl, really, her dark hair up in a ponytail—screamed as Peter barreled past her with his gun. _Fuck, there are people down here._ The Alternate had reached the end of the corridor, passing under the exit sign with her long hair streaming behind her. Peter had a shot and he took it, but it went wide, blood blossoming just at the very edge of her calf, a glancing wound. Still, she stumbled, allowing him to shave a few fractions of a second off her lead. She turned and crashed through the fire escape door, disappearing into the hazy darkness beyond.

Peter reached the door a scant few seconds behind and burst out into a dark, dirty alleyway that was void of anything except a few discarded fast-food cartons and a filthy dumpster casting long shadows in the vague orange light of a streetlamp. But there were dark spatters of blood on the asphalt, a tell-tale trail leading toward the north end of the alley. He jogged after her cautiously, both hands on his gun, eyes swiveling left and right for any surprise attack. His heart thundered in his ears as he pounded the pavement after her.

The alley opened onto a busy street, and in his haste Peter nearly bowled over a homeless man on the sidewalk, who cursed him as he ran. He could see the Alternate in the distance, still at least thirty feet ahead of him despite the leg wound he'd inflicted. People were turning toward them as they ran, mouths open, eyes flashing in fear as they registered Peter's gun.

All of a sudden, she disappeared from his line of sight, and he searched for her, eyes darting back and forth before he recognized a subway entrance up ahead. His eyes narrowed, and he put on another burst of speed, perplexed by her decision. The subway was patently a bad move, the kind of mistake a rookie would make—if there wasn't a train arriving exactly at this moment, she would probably be trapped. _She's no rookie; this doesn't make sense. _Then the explanation hit him like a sledgehammer. _She's got an accomplice—or multiple accomplices—who are giving her directions. There must be a train coming. _ With another rush of adrenaline, he recognized that he was about to lose her.

He reached the entrance and barreled headlong down the escalator, knocking people out of the way as he went, making the platform just in time to see her climb into a crowded train car. He took three long, running steps before a sharp yell caught him midstride. "FREEZE! GET DOWN! I said, PUT THE WEAPON ON THE GROUND, ASSHOLE!" Peter froze, breathing hard, uttering profanities as he put his hands up into the air and reluctantly dropped his gun. It skittered away uselessly on the cement. The Alternate was staring at him smugly through the smudged window of the train, and he raised his eyes to meet her gaze. She didn't flinch, and they glared at each other through the glass as the doors slid closed. As he watched, chest heaving, she grinned coldly at him, slowly raising her hand to hold up three fingers, ticking one down so that only two remained as the train pulled away.


	13. Chapter 13: Moustaches and Frustration

**A/N: **Hey all! I apologize for the ridiculously-long hiatus. We got back from vacation and I wanted to catch _Within_ up to _The Waiting Room_, and then I got caught up in... well, real life. Bah. So, thank you all for your very sweet well-wishes for my vacation, and most of all thank you for your patience. I promise I'll update more quickly next time! :)

Small side note: in America, we say 'pants' and mean trousers, not underwear.

Oh, and of course, thank you to my beta piratesmiley, who is listed as an example in the Oxford English Dictionary under 'wonderful'.

* * *

And so it was that Peter found himself sitting in the back of a locked police cruiser, for the second time in less than a month—which, even for him, was a record. This time he'd even been handcuffed (though a voice in his head—which sounded suspiciously like Olivia—argued that he had to admit the handcuffs were probably his own damn fault). The cuffs made it difficult to brush off the dirt and whatever other human detritus had stuck to his cheek when they'd pressed his head to the filthy cement of the subway platform in their haste to get him disarmed and handcuffed. That was after he'd taken a swing at Officer Moustache—ostensibly to make him bleed, thus confirming that he was a genuine cop and not a shapechanger, though in retrospect Peter had to admit mostly he'd just been pissed that Altlivia had escaped. Again.

He gritted his teeth, figured that he should probably be grateful that they hadn't just shot him, and glanced up to see Officer Moustache—whose distinguishing facial feature, in light of the bloody nose Peter had given him, now had a rusty tinge to it—giving him a macho version of the stink-eye through the rear-view mirror. Officer Moustache turned as his partner, Officer Pants, slid into the passenger seat. "I just got off of the phone with an Agent Philip Broyles from the FBI—his credentials check out. We're supposed to let him go so that he can get to a lab somewhere. An agent on his team's been critically injured." Peter shifted in his seat as a mixture of relief and anxiety washed over him. At least that meant Astrid was still alive. But for how long? Altlivia didn't strike him as the type to pull punches. He felt a chill as he remembered the counting stunt—ticking down the fingers had clearly been a threat, and it sounded like she was playing to kill… Of course the other two were meant be Walter and Olivia. Peter realized he was grinding his teeth and made a conscious effort to release his jaw muscles. The two officers were giving each other skeptical looks and turned around to peer at Peter though the bars.

"I'll be damned." Moustache wrinkled his nose slightly, winced, and frowned. Pants adjusted his cap, and sighed. "I suppose we'd better let 'im go, then."

"Well, it's been fun, but don't let me keep you." Eager to be rid of the handcuffs, Peter shifted forward, flexing his hands in an effort to restore circulation. He'd been sitting on them for at least twenty minutes. Moustache came around to the side and opened the door so that Peter could climb out. Once Peter was on his feet, the officer unlocked the cuffs, and whipped them off, none too gently. "_Thanks_," Peter uttered, sarcastically, massaging his wrists. He made a mental note of the officer's real name—Croix. His partner's name was Carlson. "Do you think you could give me a ride?"

"Sorry, _consultant, _but this isn't a fucking taxi service." Croix reinstalled himself in the driver's seat and slammed the door before unceremoniously chucking Peter's unloaded gun at him through the window, along with the magazine. The cruiser peeled away from the curb without further ado, leaving Peter to stand on the sidewalk with neither his phone nor his wallet, which, in his haste, he'd left in the suite. He reloaded the gun, tucked it back into his belt, and turned back toward the hotel, hands crammed into his otherwise empty pockets.

Just then, a black SUV pulled up alongside the curb. The window buzzed down to reveal an unfamiliar woman in dark glasses. She had the FBI look about her—conservative suit, dark hair pulled into a thick knot at the nape of her neck, no jewelry. "Are you Peter Bishop?" She asked, leaning forward.

"Who's asking?" Peter stayed a few steps away from the vehicle, peering through the tinted windows to see if anyone was sitting in the back seats. One hand on his gun, he also angled his body slightly so that he could see if anyone was approaching from behind on the sidewalk. In a profession where he, Walter, and Olivia had been kidnapped multiple times, he'd learned caution.

"I'm Agent Samson from the Department of Homeland Security. I've orders to drive you to the Massive Dynamic building. Agent Dunham and Dr. Bishop are working in the lab there." She flashed her badge at him.

"Sorry, Agent, but I'm not going anywhere until I speak directly with Agent Dunham or Agent Broyles, and you show me the roof of your mouth." The expression of mild irritation changed to one of surprised skepticism at his last stipulation. She was wondering if he was messing with her, or just plain crazy.

"What? Mr. Bishop, I really don't think there's a need—"

"Look, Agent, this isn't a point for discussion." He fixed her with a level, expectant stare and resisted the urge to fold his arms. With a sigh, she drew her cell phone from her slacks pocket, punched in a number, and held the phone out through the passenger side window. Peter glanced around to see if anyone was near and approached the SUV cautiously, snatched the phone, and backed off again.

"Broyles." The phone barked. Peter put it to his ear, eyeing Agent Samson, who was giving him an exasperated look that only underscored her ignorance—she was clearly a low-clearance, junior agent. Peter ignored her.

"Agent Broyles, this is Peter Bishop."

"Bishop, you need to get to Massive Dynamic laboratories immediately—your father is there with agent Dunham. Agent Farnsworth has been poisoned by an unidentified neurotoxin and they need your help."

"Agent Broyles, how did we know to meet Olivia in the field outside of New York?" Broyles paused for a second at the apparent non-sequitor, and then replied steadily,

"You were tipped off by an Observer. Bishop—we don't think she has much time." Peter nodded to himself, grimly.

"Alright, I'm on my way to Massive Dynamic. But, Agent Broyles, just one more thing—would you please convince agent Samson here that she needs to show me the roof of her mouth?"

"You think they have shapechangers involved this time, Bishop?"

"She was working with an accomplice." Broyles didn't need to ask who _she _was. He sighed audibly.

"Alright, Bishop, give her the phone." Peter leaned through the passenger-side door and handed the phone to Agent Samson. She listened for a moment to Broyles, agreed to comply, and actually rolled her eyes as she stuffed the phone back into her pocket. Then she very deliberately opened her mouth, tilting her head back so that Peter could get a good look, and revealed a clean, pink, unbroken palate. Peter opened the door as she closed her mouth, and as he slid into the driver's seat, she asked,

"Are you even going to tell me what that was about?" She fixed him with a baleful frown.

"No. But you do have something in your teeth." Peter pulled the door shut and fished around for his seat belt, smirking to himself as Agent Samson tried to pick her teeth discreetly behind one hand. Realizing that she'd been had, Samson watched him grin smugly, and if she hit the accelerator a little too hard and a little too soon so that he was thrown back into his seat, well, her foot had surely slipped.


End file.
